Long Juts Poems
Long Juts Poems. Below are the most popular long Juts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Juts poems by poem length and keyword.
Autumn, a time for reflections on reflections,
and they are rife, linked to pearly grey sky,
lake, puddle, mud strewn path or no,
while each steep cliff face boldly juts,
sheer defiance without concession or a budge,
through jagged edge loadstone chipping,
as the chilling froth-tipped sea mounts its saline tumult, irrespective of an iron cast continuing rebuttal.
One can pass the baton to u turn so turbulent,
within our mental recess at end of summer phase.
September signpost deigns to whisper,
of a scenic telltale hint and tint,
this somber colour gloss an imposition on July,
sunburst relish, such a sullen flashback,
amid the garden suite indigo plot,
beyond a purposeful utopian expanse,
which every avid green-fingered artisan must doff,
their pale straw rimmed hat to,
that transit between seasons, annual curtain drop,
awash with predetermined wish fulfilment,
glow upon each glitter that sparks our child,
eternal down the ages,
somehow yet an underlying dread might spoil
or pamper,
in such icicle entanglement so wicked in its frozen mosaic,
chase indelible precursor now more than ever so inevitable.
Curved white, feathered neck, poised just right;
Half bird, half body, unfolds into bright light.
The face stays frozen, choosing not to show;
For the feathers alone, decide where eyes must go.
She glides and struts, poised with such fanfare,
Her garments become feathers to float on the air.
Her fine body vanquished, to shun any stare,
For she is merely the elegance, her garments wear.
She pauses, pivots, swings round, so debonair.
Her shoulder tilts, her wrist juts with flair.
Each measured turn commands its own grand grace.
As feathers swirl outward, to claim more space.
The white swans depart the catwalk in style,
Their black beaks can't even fashion a smile.
For that's the game— be serene, silent and proud—
Leaving only feathers to flit in the crowd.
The lake shimmers in the early breeze
Dancing rivulets of light kissed by the rising sun,
Reflecting passing clouds hopscotching with such ease
It heralds a new day just now begun.
Observing its environs with majestic grace
An Ibis meanders daintily along waters’ edge,
Confident in its prowess to outpace
Its curved bill natures’ dancing dredge.
A ripple breaks the perfect glass
A little beak emerges from the deep,
Imbued with curiosity and sass
The snapping turtle juts its head to peep.
All the while majestic palms sway to and fro
Their fronds fanning summers’ air,
From high the watch the mornings’ show
Shielding those below from radiant glare.
A perfect harmony of sights and sounds
It bathes the soul, lightens the heart,
Natures’ beauty truly knows no bounds
Of which we we’re blessed to form a tiny part.
Dark and the Light- or- The Goose and the Bride
Act 1
Sunlit promenade juts majestically into the musical pond, spying a Hen Goose appearing to
be sitting on her nest at the end of the popular walkway. I imagined the poor girl had no idea
the odds were stacked against her hatchlings ever glimpsing sunlight.
Act 2
Each day I walked in the park, she was still there, her mate just off-shore, only leaping up
to the promenade to help repel anyone daring to venture down the narrow walkway. In a
flash, she would leap off her nest honking, hissing and snapping at intruders. I watched this
scene unfold with disbelief for three and a half weeks….still she was on her
nest…..sometimes I would come across unsuspecting victims of her assault, muttering
epitaphs of a goosely nature.
Act 3
Halfway through the fourth week, I looked and she was gone, maybe, I thought, she was
successful and had moved with her goslings to the more rugged north-park area of the
winding pond. Not seeing her there, I asked my friend, the park manager, if he knew of her
conclusion. He told me he found her eggs smashed, and one time, came upon adults kicking
the Mother Goose… I borrowed a line from the Black Sox Scandal “say it ain’t so, Joe!”
Act 4
Shaking my head, I proceeded on the path towards the promenade up ahead…. there, on the
very spot where she defended her brood ‘till death, posed a wedding couple, bathed in
afternoon sunlight, he in crisp black, she in billowing white, bringing light to darkness…..
Bringing light
to
darkness
up a steep and narrow road
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap above the miry troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any mouth or ear
swale and quag dawdle
appear to seep listless
no
every bog tunnels shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather treading low
the moors mark nothing
only a head of gnashing wind
a whipping dinosaurs tail
blear and chill
bites and grapples
a stone-tusked marl
crofts under
tangles of un-spun fleece
in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket grit edges
wings beating back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
lime-cuffed history
before light founders deeper
black anvils appear
in the lowering
a scant anchoring
a bare farrowing
shorn and scoured aloft
by miles of orbiting
beauty
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls
It juts out by the river road,
traffic passes it each morn,
what’s left of the old aqueduct,
something stately, yet still forlorn.
The rock, with no mortar, was set
so fine it would make Incas proud,
precise enough to still hold up
today, and centuries from now.
There’s a display with a picture
of how it looked in days of old,
twenty arches spanned the river,
hand-built by men flinty and bold.
On it ran the Erie Canal,
crossing the rough Mohawk below,
on barges towed by stubborn mules,
the trips were long, steady, and slow.
This once helped open the Midwest
to settlers, to goods and trade,
but that’s a different country now,
and long ago such things did fade.
The roads and rails brought prices down,
and moved much quicker than a mule,
they went and dammed the river up,
much wider than some man-made pool.
That fact, alas, would be its end,
the arches blocked the way of boats,
and in the winter jammed the ice,
so floods onto spring banks would flow.
They blew up all the arches grand,
only those by the shore remain,
buried half of that great canal,
now barely known, save for the name.
Those who still use the aqueduct
are kids leaping into the drink,
someday they’ll try to shut that down,
claiming that it’s a ‘safety thing.’
And the arches that look just like
something made back in ancient Rome,
will be like all great things men built,
reduced to naught but broken stone.
As Friday's messes my hair in knots,
the chaotic boom of a night begins
to subside: a gentler sway from the park
juts forward , almost caressing my flesh…
a relay of new stars and powdered mist
whorl among balmy trees glowing in the pale dark ...
I am led to some kind of a sacred hammock ,
or is it a courtyard, and there…
frames away, the moon rises with a kiln
of air and fire; an explosion of my tight cocoon
transcending the daze of this near weekend,
of an evening's solemnity reflecting the languor
from a nocturnal toil quieting my breath—
~
Farther on, contours of fireflies drift
within a viscous space, gaily dancing
without a pattern of thought , stirring
my belly across a dune of moistened grass... I freeze.
Somehow, as if to reel in their own environ
they whiz psalmic songs upon this breast;
halting and easing these weary summer hours
as Friday redeems its grueling demands --
I freeze and inhale the remaining scent of half- light.
....
Friday Feeling Contest of Silent One
3/10/2018
Oh! towering revelation spires center of it's eye;
Amber bright white yellow beams of light shine;
As morning just dawn;
Waves of the sea horizontal
As the skies meets the water land
Lighthouse beacons
Wind kisses it's breeze;
Such a tease;
Somberly clouds look down;
As the beacon sounds;
Lighthouse beacons
As the skies, grounds, sea meets'
Brilliant light beckons, shines long strong and bright;
Shows the boats and ships their way;
Towering height and distance from focal plane;
Lighthouse beacons
Light stand reconocianse promontory;
Graphic horizontal lines natural elevation inventory;
Ship on waters sails;
To no avail;
Rocky spikes that juts out into the seas;
Lighthouse a safeguard to those on waters in need;
12/22/18
For Lighthouse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
This happens to me ever Fall
when the first frosts slick the grass,
I see the mercury plummet
and I hope the cold comes fast.
Though I try not to rush my life,
and enjoy things as I go,
come Fall I’m just a skier
who’s stuck waiting for the snow.
I wait for the first plume of breath
when I walk outside at night,
it means the snowmakers are out
coating ground in sheets of white.
They may cover but one real trail,
and the conditions often blow,
but it’s like crack to a skier
when they’re waiting for the snow.
While others hate the winter
and are warm besides the fire,
I dream of frozen mountaintops
as I put on my snow-tires,
of racing at highway speeds,
with my legs in zen-like flow,
in truth we’re much like addicts,
and our white powder is snow.
I love, then hate, the weatherman,
curse the Indian-summers too,
I’m ready for a powder slug
that my skis can juts blast through.
It’s such a first-world problem,
so make all the jokes you know,
but it sucks to be a skier
when you’re waiting for the snow.
up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear
slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles
a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches
flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen
before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze
a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls